THIS IS NOT A CHAIR

A chair is an anchor of human presence—a vessel for the body, time, and the unspoken. Its size and placement carve emptiness into space, inviting dialogue with absence. Space, as perceived by humans, is both physical and emotional: it holds memories, expectations, and the silent weight of what is no longer there.

This object exists between presence and absence. In an era of fracture, it does not offer answers but instead holds the echoes of dissolved gatherings, the quiet doubt of creative labor, and the hollowed spaces of loss.

The domestic chair is translated into metal, its form a skeletal echo of the familiar. Rigid yet yielding, the wire structure weaves tension into being. It does not comfort; it interrogates. Each intersection is a knot of memory, each void a silence made visible.

The act of making becomes ritual. Like raked sand in kare-sansui, the lines are both order and erasure—a landscape where nothing is permanent, yet everything remains.

This is not a chair. It is an ache given shape.